Page 115 of Beneath a Shattered Sky
“You don’t need to,” I counter. “I know it’s you.”
And this is nothing like Fellgotha. The open sky, the feeling of warmth and comfort, the scent of him and the soughing of wind through the fiery canopy above… It’s the total opposite of that dank, dark hall in the mountain.
So when Jaro crouches beside me and cups a little of the water in his hand to trickle it over the joints on my back, I sigh a little deeper and lean forward.
“When I was a kid, I wanted wings instead of a wolf,” he admits quietly. “Florian had them, and my ma, too. But I got my pa’s shifter gene and all the complications that came with that.”
“Being a wolf would be better,” I insist, shivering as more water is carefully wiped over my topmost left wing. “I can’t even begin to imagine how incredible it is to share your life with an animal like that.”
He hums under his breath noncommittally, continuing with his task. “As an adult, I appreciate that.”
We lapse into a warm, comforting silence after that. The lack of conversation and the gentle care he’s lavishing on me lull me until I start to slump in the water.
It’s only when he’s finished and he’s carrying me back to camp that he brings himself to return to the topic at hand. “Are you okay with Kitarni remaining in the Temple? You can order her return, if you need to.”
Chuckling under my breath, I reach up and cup his jaw, bringing his face down for a tender kiss. “I understand why she’s doing it.”
We need to help the Autumn Court, and we need the support of the Temple. She can’t be in two places at once.
“I don’t want to distract her, so we’ll stick to the plan. Besides, Lore can get her any time.” I turn my gaze to the dying embers of the fire ahead, just visible through the trees. “We need to carry on with the pilgrimage.”
Except that pilgrimage is no longer just about appeasing the superstitions of the fae. It’s now a battle march across the northern borders to protect my people.
And deep, deep down, that scares me.
Thirty-Four
Rhoswyn
The ruins of the fort sit on a hill high above the remnants of the village, the entire scene cast in shadows by the pale moon above. Between the burnt-out buildings, translucent figures glide aimlessly, the colour they had in life leeched from them in death until they’re pale facsimiles of what they looked like before. Their homes must’ve been torched recently, since they’re still here and not in the Otherworld, though the damage to the fort above looks older. I’m keeping my vision relaxed, as Cressida taught me, but every once in a while, I slip up, focusing on something real, and the ghosts disappear for a second.
Drystan and the others stride forward, but Jaro and I hang back, watching as the spirits take note of his presence, then flee.
He was right. They avoid the Lord of the Wild Hunt like he’s come for them, hiding behind collapsed walls and the blackened stumps of felled trees as he passes. But when Jaro and I enter the outskirts of the village, they start to creep forwards.
So the draw of a necromancer must outweigh the fear that comes with being around a member of the Host. That makes sense, I guess. Annis, the necromancer I met on Samhain, was insane despite being a member. Yet, as we draw closer to my dullahan, they shrink back again.
What is it about him that scares them so much? I want to stop and experiment more, but I don’t. This is going to take a lot of concentration, and if I fail, my Guard will argue that I shouldn’t try again.
Keeping my gaze relaxed, I reach for Danu inside me. She rushes forward at my call, magic filling me until I manage to direct it to my throat.
“If you can fight, come with me.”
The order visibly quells the spirits, the young and the frail wilting back. About a dozen or so fae are dragged to my side by the force of my power, some clutching pitchforks, others battered weapons.
They’d tried, I realise sadly. When the Fomorians came, these fae had tried to defend themselves with what little they had.
The spirits start talking all at once, but remembering Cressida’s advice, I hold my hand out for silence.
“Don’t speak.”
Their eyes plead with me, beseeching me to do a hundred things until my heart aches for them. Unfortunately, I’ve read Cressida’s mother’s journal cover-to-cover twice. I remember all too vividly her account of trying to fulfil every single one of those unspoken wishes. A last word to a beloved spouse here; settling issues with their estate there. Eventually it became too much, snowballing until she couldn’t sleep without requests constantly being whispered in her ear.
“The dead are dead,” she’d written. “Their influence on the living should be no greater than their memory allows. Anyinterference on our part is unnatural, and only ever leads to more grief.”
In light of that account, the autumn queen’s advice to use the spirits as tools and nothing more seems well founded. I’ll borrow their strength for this battle, then leave them to rest until Samhain.
I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to apply the same level of detachment to my Guides or those I knew before death.
